


I can't withstand your claims to "renewal"

by GalekhXigisi



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Anger Management, Anxiety Attacks, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Della Duck, Autistic Donald Duck, Bird Biology (genuinely freeform here lol), Della Duck has ADHD, Donald Duck Has ADHD, Donald Duck Has PTSD, Eggs, Extremely Underage, Flashbacks, Gender Dysphoria, Grooming, How do i tag miscarriage with eggs????, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscarriage, Multi, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Surgery, Teen Pregnancy, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Trans Donald Duck, Trans Panchito Pistoles, Transphobia, Underage Rape/Non-con, Underage Sex, Unplanned Pregnancy, Victim Blaming, non-verbal communication, rape between Donald Duck and Cousin Gus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:28:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27873845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalekhXigisi/pseuds/GalekhXigisi
Summary: Donald thought it would end after his parents died. After all, Uncle Scrooge never associated with anyone outside of the family other than a select few. But, of course, he has the very worst possible luck ever and it results in one final blowout before he can't take what cousin Gus does to him anymore. It's tearing him to shred.Thankfully, Uncle Scrooge is nothing but supportive of it.Rather unfortunately, though, Donald finds that there are more than just a few side effects to this.
Relationships: Della Duck & Donald Duck, Della Duck & Donald Duck & Scrooge McDuck, Donald Duck & Scrooge McDuck, José Carioca/Donald Duck/Panchito Pistoles, One-sided Donald Duck/Gus Goose
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

Donald glares at the rock, his teeth gritting as he glares at the shifty little bitch. It’s small, nothing more than a pebble, but it seems to be the teenager’s object of unbridled anger. 

It’s why he absolutely launches it at a tree and why he screams when it comes back at him, viciously cutting at his cheek. 

The rain pours heavily, pounding against his skin. 

_ The pounding of skin against skin is still such a fresh noise. _

He grits his teeth and throws the rock once more, not caring as it falls behind a handful of bushes, mostly leaving it undisturbed and the action being pointless. He can’t explain to anyone how horrid his voice had become over his few years with Scrooge, since his parents had passed in a horrid car crash the night they picked up the twins from their uncle’s. Della doesn’t remember it, passed out in the back seat, but Donald remembers each detail so vividly. 

The heavy downfall of rain covers his wails, the angry sobbing so pointless. 

_ Everything _ feels pointless. 

Cousin Gus had always been so prim and proper, so much older than Donald and Della. He knew so much more, was so mature with his entirely (traditionally) American lifestyle and parents who could always bail him out of any and all trouble. He acted so nice and innocent, all smiles and hearty chuckles, oblivious to the muck he caused, having luck almost as good as Gladstone’s. 

Donald knew so much better than that. 

He’d been seven the first time he’d been touched, not even knowing what was going on. He’d become so conditioned to that touch that, at some point, he thought of it no better than play, though he only played that way with cousin Gus, who always told him to keep it a secret. 

He hadn’t known otherwise until he was fourteen and Jose and Panchito were making out with Donald sharing space on their laps, confused as to what was going on. It had taken a lot of sympathy and a lengthy explanation from the two that they weren’t  _ playing, _ that what was going on was actually making out and what they had been insinuating, the way they had kissed at Donald’s neck and their hands had settled on his hips wasn’t to  _ play, _ it was to, well,  _ have sex _ or something of that sort. 

Donald hadn’t understood and it ended with Donald’s spiraling into a meltdown, confused and blubbering before ultimately shutting his mouth and losing the comfort to vocalize anything. He stayed non-verbal for a whole month and a half after. Uncle Scrooge had never pried and Della couldn’t get information out of him, anyway. Not even Fethry or Gladstone had gotten a peep out of him. Jose and Panchito hadn’t asked about it but their relationship had certainly come to some changes that day. Donald liked those changes. 

He thought he would never have to see cousin Gus anymore. After all, Uncle Scrooge never associated with that side of the family, especially not after his sister and brother-in-law’s passing. It was a gigantic relief until a week ago. 

And Donald can still feel his body’s response, his weeping hole, sobbing from the abuse it had taken. To say he  _ felt bad _ was certainly an understatement. Things had changed since as Donald had matured, yet he had frozen and became nothing more than a servant to please cousin Gus, so incredibly passive and ready to take a hit. 

_ “I won’t touch Della if you do what I saw,” _ he had bargained when Donald said he didn’t want to  _ play _ today. 

He feels ill. Suddenly, he understands why he started his menstrual cycle so early, why his body forced itself to become accustomed to breeding so incredibly earlier than Della had, despite being identical twins who were almost the exact same. He had learned to just, well,  _ deal with it, _ with the way his body still ached and the bruises sat thickly beneath white feathers. No one knew, thanks to Scrooge’s constant adventures that Donald’s been flaking out from since last week. It’s only two adventures, but he usually goes at least every other one when he can. However, he’s basked in the loneliness as of late and doesn’t want to give it up. 

He had Jose and Panchito earlier, but the instant Panchito had touched Donald’s hip in a neutral boyfriend-showing-affection way, Donald had spiraled and had a panic attack instantly, leading him to send the two home. They were reluctant but knew better than to press. Donald could have self-destructive tendencies, yes, but he knew when he wanted to be alone and when he didn’t. He usually knew what he  _ needed. _ Despite their never-ending worry for the third piece to their trio, they had left with soft goodbyes and gentle forehead kisses that Donald melted into and preened at. 

“What are you  _ screamin’ _ about,” comes a sudden voice that has Donald whirling around so fast that his hips and back both pop with the movements. He’s quick to swipe at the feet of whoever is there, but he’s stopped by a cane, only managing to slam his ankle into the metal rather harshly. 

His breathing quickens, panic clear between his sobs as he looks up at his uncle, who has an umbrella over his head, only looking mildly perturbed by his nephew’s attack. There’s concern written in the raised brow. 

“What happened, lad?” 

Donald only chokes down a sob, hands frantically wiping at his face. “Nothing,” he yelps, though it’s broken and  _ forced. _ It’s one of the first things he’s said since that party outside of the phone call he’d had to his boyfriends and the panic that had followed. 

_ “Donald,” _ Scrooge huffs in return. Tentatively, he reaches an arm towards the boy. 

_ “Come on, Donna,” Gus begs, smirking as he presses his hand to Donald’s cheek. His thumb strokes over the younger duck’s cheekbone. “You don’t want to play with your favorite cousin Gus? Was that what your mom and dad always told you to do?” _

It feels like a singular blink. Scrooge is looking at him funny. Why was Donald on the ground? What was Uncle Scrooge saying to him? Since when was he  _ inside? _

“Is he okay,” Della asks in a whisper, though her whispers always tend to be too loud, anyway. 

“Aye, he will be soon, lass,” the adult replies, “Just need to give him some rest right now.” 

Donald lets out a whimper, the confusion getting to him as he leans up. His uncle, from his spot at the end of the couch, looks like he wants to push the other back down, arms out for it, though he retreats and doesn’t touch his nephew at all. “How are you feeling, Donald,” he asks. 

Donald doesn’t know how to respond. His body feels like lead, like his mouth was stuffed with cotton. He shivers, aware his feathers are soaked, as well as his clothing. 

Della’s eyes dart to their uncle, then back to her brother before doing so a few more times. “I’ll go get some clothes for you, Donald,” she says after a sharp nod from her uncle. She darts off quicker than Donald can even process her words. 

Donald’s confusion doesn’t falter and he can feel the way everything threatens to overwhelm him. He gives his uncle a worried hum, a few clicks in his throat following. He doesn’t need to say anything for Scrooge to get the message. Scrooge has long since come to learn Donald’s cues for non-verbal pleas, this one being a warning that Scrooge is quick to move to attend to. He turns out the lights, only leaving a few on near them, dimmed down. The sound around them is already limited to the pounding rain. 

“M’boy,” Scrooge says tentatively as he dims the light beside him. Donald’s eyes focus on his uncle. “I do not have any biological kids of my own, but, please know that I love you and Della as if you were my own. I would tear the world apart and then some to ensure you two were safe and happy.” 

Donald nods, aware. It took years to drill it into his thick skull, but he  _ knew _ it. There was no way to deny it anymore. He can’t help but whisper, “What happened, Unca Scrooge?” 

Scrooge purses his beak, but hums as he gently sits back down at the end of the couch. “When I tried to get your attention, you zoned out and started panicking. It was a lot different from your meltdowns. Normally, you come into a meltdown screaming or fighting and then out of it relatively calm, but crying.” Donald nods. He’s aware of that, aware of how his meltdowns go. Della and Donald are nowhere near similar when they get overstimulated. It made for an interesting comparison, in his opinion, though Della had no interest in it. “You just…. You shut down entirely. You stopped talking and you started breathing so hard and you were so…  _ quiet, _ even while you were crying. I tried to get your attention, to help however I could, but you just passed out.” 

_ “Oh.” _

His brows furrow, eyes falling to his own lap. He only just notices the glass of water at the side table. He doesn’t think he could hold down even water right now with the way his stomach slashes. 

“I’ve never tried to pry about what’s happened within your youth or whatever else you’ve gone through that you wish not to discuss, but… I believe that was a flashback and if it was, I may need to learn what your triggers are to avoid them and learn how to help when things happen. You don’t have to say what happened, but I would like to help however it is that I can.” 

Donald sits silently for a moment. His core feels cold. Not in the way his body does, no. His core shivers, that bit in his ribs and just below the cage’s ending, so incredibly tense. His stomach sucks in, shivering only there. His chest feels heavy and he feels his teeth grind as his jaw clenches too tight for anything to be healthy. 

_ The fingerprints glare back at him in the mirror when he parts his feathers. _

“You do know... Cousin Gus isn’t a good person, right?” he asks. 

Scrooge seems a bit taken aback, a less than eloquent,  _ “Huh,” _ leaving his lips. 

“He’s  _ never _ been nice,” Donald says. “I - I thought after Mom and Dad died, I wouldn’t have to see him again. He wouldn’t be able to  _ touch me _ again!” His skin feels like it’s crawling and he has to fan his face. He doesn’t feel good, close to nauseated now. “But then he was at your  _ party,” _ Donald says, his fingers tightening around nothing, knuckles popping harshly. He digs them into the blanket. He finds himself defeated as he whispers, “He’s so much  _ worse _ now.”

“Donald,” Scrooge says, his tone unreadable, “Dis cousin Gus touch you in any way that would be considered inappropriate?” 

Donald’s nails dig into the fabric. “I didn’t even know it wasn’t playing until Jose and Panchito  _ told me.” _

Scrooge lets out a soft breath. 

“I thought it was  _ normal, _ that it was like  _ wrestling. _ He said it hurt because I was just  _ bad at it _ and that me being bad hurt  _ his _ feelings! He said I was supposed to bleed, that it wasn’t fun if I  _ didn’t _ get hurt or bleed or get bruises!” His hands make slight gestures. The shaking doesn’t stop and he feels like he’s one sniffle away from vomiting. “He called me Donna and said he wouldn’t touch Della as long as I was good for him. He said he wouldn’t hurt her if I was  _ good enough!” _

Tears pool down his cheeks and he has to throw the blanket off of him to find the closest trash can to vomit in. 

_ Donald wants to sob as the other cants against him. It feels like his body is being split in half, the other pushing deeper than should be possible, burning hot inside the younger duck. He's too large and Donald chokes down the urge to scream and sob, folding his legs a bit tighter to his body in hopes that the cramps in his legs will distract the way their skin slaps together and the blood pools just beneath Donald, staining white feathers red.  _

_ "If you tell anyone, they'll think you're nothing more than a slut. It's your fault your mind is wrong. Your mom and dad both said that. Even they know you're always wrong, Donna." _

A sob falls from the boy’s lips as he gags on nothing, the contents of his stomach emptied so quickly. 

_ Donald chokes, forcing down vomit as he gags on the other’s cock. The saltiness that’s invaded all of his tastebuds only makes the feelings worse as tears trickle down his cheeks, though he forces down the whimpers of protest.  _

_ For Della, he thinks as he feels the head press against the back of his throat, burying itself in his mouth and the other’s cum splashing down the back of his throat.  _

_ He tries not to cry, despite the grogginess and way his body seems to be giving out beneath him.  _

_ Had things always been so cloudy?  _

His uncle offers him a cup of water, not touching his nephew but there for support as was needed. 

_ Waking up was rough, everything so harsh. The lights were too bright and Donald felt so disgusting, sticky as can be. Cold water sprayed over his body, washing the filth out of his feathers. He blinked at the other’s face in front of him, his twin sister smirking as she snapped her fingers in front of him.  _

_ “Wow, I know cousin Gus let you drink some of that champagne, but I didn’t think it would give you this huge of a hangover.”  _

_ Donald hadn’t responded, throat burning along with the rest of his body as he glared at her. Only a light hiss from his damaged vocal cords left him.  _

“Take your time, Donald,” Scrooge chimes softly. His voice has no bark whatsoever, incredibly comforting as Donald whimpers in reply. “Remember to breathe, alright? We can do those breathing exercises your therapist said for you to do last month.” 

_ Yes, _ the therapist was new. It was an anger management therapist that, technically, was mandated by his old grief counselor, who Donald hadn’t seen since his parents died but managed to swindle Scrooge into getting him one. 

Donald nods, wheezing softly but aware that he did, in fact, need to breathe. 


	2. Chapter 2

Within the whole handful and a half of years he’s been alive, he’s aware that it takes a lot of paperwork to do anything legal. It had taken so much to adopt the twins fully into the McDuck family. Beneath hundreds of concealed medical records stood the twins’ name changed,  _ Della McDuck _ and  _ Donald McDuck _ legally his adopted children. They had their name changes both from Donald’s transition and Della convincing her twin that, well, it would be better than to lay claims to their previously known heritage. At the time, Scrooge hadn’t entirely understood, but apparently Donald had mentioned something about everything with Gus Goose and been turned down, as well as being snippy about Donald coming out as being transgender. It had been an unfortunate bit about why the twins ended up with Scrooge, though he was aware DOnald hadn’t held it against them, even after their passing. 

He knows better than anyone that things get worse before they get better. He’s gone through hundreds of setbacks, accumulated his own handful of injuries and whatever else. However, it’s never been anything like  _ this. _ And he’s also never seen Donald so, well, _ lifeless, _ to say the least. 

The piles of paperwork almost don’t feel like enough. They don’t feel like they’ll mean enough for his nephew, that they won’t even begin to help heal the wounds he’s gotten. It hasn’t at all helped that he’s physically healing from what happened, too. Physically healing isn’t the prettiest process. While, yes, a good portion of his internal structure had been well off and healing naturally, there were tears and wounds that needed to be taken care of. It had been an almost awkward gynecologist visit but they had managed. Donald had come out of it with a need for an ultrasound. The ultrasound resulted in a surgery that Donald was, for the most part, recovered from well enough now. 

THe early hours of the morning stalk up upon him. He has thing to do today, though he’s let his night be overtaken by the paperwork he needs to finish. His wrist aches horribly with how much he’s written, but he doesn;t mind. He stands upright, letting his back pop accordingly. It sounds like an incredibly fucked up xylophone. He extends his arms in front of him, fingers interlocking before he stretches his wrists and fingers. 

He hasn’t spoken to Donald within the last two days. The duck has spent most of his time either alone, something Scrooge had expected but it still managed to hurt him significantly. He wasn’t sure how to help. He felt so useless here, something that he isn’t entirely used to. The richest duck in the world and yet he still can’t help his nephew how he’d like to, still couldn’t  _ keep him safe. _

He can’t help but feel guilty, throat tight. The sun only glares at him through the large window, the rays lighting up the dust around the room. It’s golden rays only seem to be insulting as they light up the pages on his desk. THey don’t seem to be filled out enough. He still has a lot to do, after all, a significant handful of papers left to sign in order to do whatever it is he can. It’s not much, in his opinion, but making sure to have a restraining order against Gus is just the very first step towards helping Donald. He just hates that it’s taken so fucking lone. 

There’s a gentle knock on his door. Immediately, he raises a confused brow, finding himself softly questioning, “Now, who could be up at this hour?” However, he ends up raising his voice to call out, “Come in,” without much of a thought. There’s an incredibly limited amount of people who could be knocking on the door in general, and it becomes even more limited given the time that it is. 

He can’t withhold his surprise at seeing Della tentatively open the door. Her brows are furrowed as she comes into the room, asking quietly, “Hey, Uncle Scrooge, can we talk?” She rings her hands carefully as she enters, shutting the door behind herself with incredible care to keep it quiet. Her eyes dart around, looking carefully at the door, almost as if she’s worried someone will hear her. Someone outside of  _ Scrooge, _ actually. 

“What can I help ya’ with, lass,” he asks, watching as she shifts from foot to foot. “Did something happen?” 

“Actually,” she mumbles, “it’s sort of what  _ didn’t _ happen.” Her bill purses. “Donald hasn’t been answering anytime I knock on the door and he’s got it locked. He keeps yelling at me to go away, too.” 

Scrooge nods at her words. “Della, my dear, he is coping with some hard things at the moment, he may need a bit more time to even collect what’s happened. There’s a lot going on with him.” 

Della nods frantically, supplying quickly, “I  _ know that, _ Uncle Scrooge, but I feel like something is  _ wrong _ with him! Call it that stupid twin bond or whatever but I  _ know _ something is wrong with him!” Her hands slightly flap as her impatience with her uncle grows. “I just  _ know _ it, okay? Can you just…  _ trust me on that?” _

Scrooge wasn’t going to hesitate to trust her. If there is anything that Scrooge trusts the twins about without hesitation, it’s the twin instinct. Della spent all of the party searching for her twin, after all, and it had very much been within reason now that they’ve seen how the party had impacted the poor teenager. However, the desperation in her voice and the way she doesn’t let go the sense of urgency, well, he’s only seen her this out of touch a few times and they’ve never had any good come out of them. The same can be said with the roles swapped. Donald’s fits of rage had become somewhat a protective gesture now, quite honestly, not that neither his sister nor uncle have voiced that knowledge. 

“Come on, lass,” he says softly, using his cane for more support than usual. His back is stiff and he feels more drained than he has in a hot minute, but he finds himself not caring in the least little bit as he walks to his nephew’s room, his niece trailing beside him with her arms moving in front of her, anxiously stimming. it ‘s easy to tell that whatever it is that’s going on is, to say the very least, not going to benefit their situation in the very least. Scrooge silently attempts to swallow down his nerves, hoping and praying that it’s nothing more than a vivid nightmare, that it isn’t a physical manifestation of his own nightmares of what could happen to his kids. He can’t explain to anyone just how broken he would be if he found one of them dead, after all. 

By the time Scrooge is knocking on Donald’s door, Della is anxiously bouncing back and forth from foot to foot, certainly straining the muscles in the balls of her heels, putting too much weight on the joints and changing it too frantically. He doesn’t say anything about it, though, instead, focusing on the door in front of him. 

A weak, “Go away,” is all he gets in return. 

There are a lot of things wrong with this that Scrooge can already pin, even without Della’s eyes staring him down as if to say her own version of, _ Now, do you see what I mean, Uncle Scrooge? _ She doesn’t voice it and he’s incredibly thankful for that. 

For one, Donald is, by any and all means, not a morning person whatsoever. The only reason he would be up now is either because Della, in all her Early Bird glory, would have either woken him up or he would be going to sleep by now. Even if he were going to sleep, he would always be quick to snap an angry comment in reply, a quick whip of his tongue. There was one time he even hit Della with a chair as a means to get her to go away, though, to be fair, she had poured a cup of freezing cold water on him and it had already been a tough week. To say the least, they both got yelled at. 

For a second thing, Donald rarely ever flat out tells them to go away. It’s a bit odd, but Scrooge and Della both knew he would give them the boot in a colorful array of noises that just didn’t entirely make sense to, well, _ really anyone. _ Even the two had trouble deciphering it all as his vocal cords took a hefty amount of damage over the years, resulting in a scratchier and scratchier voice. It was no one’s fault, really. THe damage had been hard to catch and by the time someone had, there was too much done to reverse it and all they could do now was help slow it the best they could. He only would bluntly tell them to go away during bad days, and even then, he would  _ never _ lock the door. 

“Donald, it’s Uncle Scrooge. Do you mind if I come in for just a moment? It’s important.” 

Donald lets out a squeak, one that’s dismissive as he says, “I’m trying to  _ sleep, _ Unca Scrooge.” 

“A  _ singular _ moment, it’s just needing you to sign a few papers.” 

Della glares slightly at her uncle, but she knows what he means.

_ “No.” _

“I’m going to be blunt, Donald, your sister sent me and, quite honestly, I’m a step away from breaking down the door myself to check on you.” 

Scrooge wasn’t the best at keeping boundaries in place. Well, at least, not in a traditional sense. He knew limits and wouldn’t reach them. He always knocked and waited for his niblings to give him the okay to come in. He never read Donald’s lyrics jurnal, never peaked at Della’s old comic books that she didn’t want anyone looking at, wouldn’t cross any lines that he didn’t have to or had the choice to refrain from doing. However, his heart seems to be hammering in his throat and he can feel his own anxiety restricting him. He worries for his niblings more than anyone who isn’t a parent can even begin to understand, of course, but there is something about this situation that makes his heart pound and brain run through a million  _ what ifs _ that don’t have any happy outcomes whatsoever. It’s so incredibly overwhelming in a way that none of his adventures have once even began to compare to. He wishes he weren’t feeling like this, though. It doesn’t feel good. 

Reluctantly, Scrooge is certain, the door unlocks and Donald peers at his uncle and sister. A thick blanket covers his body, not at all touching the ground, balled up in his arms but still covering his body. He quickly moves forward, coming into the hall and shutting the door behind him. His eyes are misty with unshed tears, the layer of feathers on his cheeks thin and obviously having gotten plucked within and anxiety-riddled mess. Scrooge almost swear he can see blood on Donald’s left hand before the limb recede’s into the blanket’s folds, the teenager asking,  _ “What,” _ in an irritable snap. 

“What’s in your room,” Della snaps right back before Scrooge even has the chance to consider an answer. 

“A mess.” 

“What made the mess?” 

“Me.” 

“Why’d you make a mess?” 

“Had a meltdown.” 

“And you  _ didn’t _ come and get one of us?” 

“You can’t help with this.” 

“Why can’t we help with it?” her qords come just as spitfire quick as Donald’s plain, blunt ones. “Was it about the cousin Gus stuff?” 

Donald flinches at their cousins’ mention and Scrooge tries to butt in with a warning, “Della.” 

Donald doesn’t let him get past that word. “It’s not your business.” 

“Of  _ course, _ it’s my business!” 

“Why? And how?” 

“Because I’m your  _ sister _ and I’m getting worried about you over here.” 

“I’m  _ fine!” _

“So being bundled in a blanket and looking like you haven’t slept in weeks after having a meltdown is  _ fine?” _

“Della, you can’t help with this.” 

“Why  _ can’t I? _ I can sit with you!” Her arms flail with wide gestures as she speaks. “I can get you food or drinks or talk you through breathing exercises! I can beat up anyone that says anything bad! I can even-” 

“You can’t help me  _ lay eggs,” _ he suddenly yells, seemingly having reached his boiling point with his twin. Immediately, the other two’s eyes widen significantly as Donald flaps his own hands uncertainly. The stimming doesn’t seem to help. “I laid two and… And one of them is so  _ cold _ and I can’t hear anything from it and I’ve been trying to keep it  _ warm _ but I still hurt and it’s just not  _ working.” _ His face crumbles as his voice hitches. 

_ “Donald,” _ Della breathes out, moving forward within and instant to pull her brother into a tight hug. Donald’s blanket pools around the two, falling to the floor to reveal blood-stained hands, most likely also anatomical fluids as well, the bodily mix on the grosser side of things but needed nonetheless. Della doesn’t care as she holds her sobbing twin. “Did you even know?” 

The other shakes his head slowly, frowning deeply as he presses his forehead to his sister’s shoulder. “I didn’t even realize until a few days ago,” he admits quietly. 

Scrooge sighs quietly, bringing a hand up to gently pet the top of Donald’s head. “Alright, Donald,” he says softly, “go get cleaned up, alright? Take Della if you need some help, you’re bound to be sore. I’ll see what I can do about your room and the eggs, dear.” 

Donald and Della both nod, the steadier of the twins leading while Donald leans against her shoulder, taking refuge in the comfort she’s providing. Scrooge waits until the bathroom door is shut to even attempt to go into his nephew’s room. There’s still a pounding fear within him, one that he hasn’t been entirely expecting today. 

He opens the door and frowns. There’s a smell to it, one he can’t say he doesn’t expect. There were fluids to birth, of course, but it still hits Scrooge like a truck, despite it not actually being that sharp or prominent. And to say the room was a mess wasn’t that odd, honestly. It wasn’t a wreck, that’s for sure, nothing like one of Donald’s horrid meltdowns that often left his room unlivable for a few days. Instead, it looked like he had actually deep cleaned. Scrooge had heard something about that, about there being a few hours of possible mania before birth, an instinct to have a clean and safe place. It was actually clean, everywhere except Donald’s closet, which was overflowing with blankets and clothes, all slotted into the little room. It isn’t like the soiled bed, which had obviously been where Donald had given birth if the heavy traces of blood and other dried fluids there were any sort of testimony. 

He carefully moves to the closet, so incredibly careful not to jostle the two eggs out of fear that they would fall or maybe even crack with his misgivings. He can see the two carefully placed, swaddled in the blankets and sitting atop a mass of pillows. Suddenly, Donald beginning to hoard the whole houses’ collection of blankets began to make a whole lot more sense. And he carefully moves to check the temperature of the two. THe first one he touches is warm, warm as can be within it’s cuddled up compartment and certainly safe. He stretches his body in order to get to the second one, finding it cold as ice and almost…  _ soft. _ His throat feels tight, already painfully aware of what it means. 

Slowly, Scrooge shakes his head sympathetically, reaching across the little space to retrieve the egg. He places it atop the mound of blankets, away from the other egg. Once it’s out of the dark space, he can see just how discolored it is and he feels certainly guilty that he’ll have to be the bearer of bad news to his little nephew. But he knows he needs to do what he can to clean the bedroom while his niblings take their time in the bathroom. Based on the fact that almost all of Donald’s clothes that he wears and thinks are comfortable are in the bottom of his closet, he’ll be needing to borrow some from his sister now, or maybe even one of his uncle’s oversized coats if it comes down to it. 

“Bless me kilts, kid,” he mumbles softly, thankful that the room is, for the most part, barron. It makes getting the mattress itself out of the room significantly easier than it would have been without it. He’s quick about his work, ignoring Duckworth up until the butler sighs and only makes use of getting rid of the bed and sticking another in the hall for Scrooge to replace. He doesn’t question the other at all as he walks away, aware that this is one of the few family issues he won’t be let on until  _ after _ the fact. 

It takes half an hour to get everything cleaned up and by the time he does, Donald and Della are both peaking into the room. Donald looks about ready to pass out and Della is carefully holding onto him still, but keeping her distance a bit. He has on one of Scrooge’s old coats. 

“I replaced your mattress,” Scrooge informs him quietly, “But… I don’t think there’s anything I can do for the egg, lad.” 

Donald’s fists ball, his hand in Della’s own squeezing a bit tightly as he peers at the ground. “Okay,” he says softly, his voice so quiet, “That’s fine.” 

Della peers at her brother with wide eyes but doesn’t say anything. 

“However, I’m going to take you and the other egg both to see a doctor, alright? This isn’t supposed to be something you just  _ do alone, _ Donald. You could have come and got one of us, we would have gotten a doctor or something of that sort. You could have been  _ hurt.” _

“I know,” he mumbles, looking away. 

Della quickly shakes her head, eyes still wide. It’s a warning at her uncle to just  _ drop it _ and he quickly does so, not willing to continue on. She’s obviously chewed him out for it already and it clearly didn’t end well. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no beta bc im literally getting dressed for work I'm gonna be fuckin late. don't expect another chapter for a bit, sorry


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for doctors, mentioned dysphoria, blood, victim-blaming, past transphobia, medical issues, implied/referenced surgery, and continuation of what's been continuous themes that have been in this fanfic.

Donald can’t feel anything as he lays in the little bed, legs up in stirrups as the doctor roots around his vaginal canal, checking for any sort of injury or whatever else would need to be tended to. Well, at least,  _ emotionally, _ he feels nothing. He can feel every physical sensation, resisting the urge to cry as she checks at one of the tears. His hand tightens around Della’s and Scrooge is at his side, fretting over him the instant Donald yelps out a cry, withdrawing from everyone as his toes curl and he feels his core buzz with pain. 

The doctor apologizes in a soft tone as Scrooge runs his hand through Donald’s feathers, half-heartedly petting his head as he comforts his adopted son. It doesn’t stop Donald from crying, though. The aftereffects of everything hurt more than he had considered and he’s certainly feeling everything, even now, hours later and after a bath where Della had helped him scrub the blood away from his legs and had fussed at him the whole time before he had broken down and sobbed. To say the least, he could feel his mental health being torn down even more and more as the day went on. 

The doctor excuses herself for a moment as another peaks in, the hen whispering something with a concerned expression that makes Donald’s stomach drop, fear distinctly taking refuge in his gut. He only wants to cry harder as he hears the door click shut. His head falls back against the headrest and he whimpers as it shakes his body. He wishes things didn’t hurt as bad as they currently did. 

He’s spent the birth biting down on an old wooden clothes hanger with an old shirt wrapped around it to filter his screams and cries. The first egg had been rough. Of course it was, he hadn’t known what to expect, just that there was such a horrid pressure on his hips that couldn’t compare to even his worst menstrual cycles and that he wanted to clean his room. It wasn’t uncommon, he would often have bouts of mania as a result of his depression and became even a coping mechanism for his PTSD. He hadn’t thought of it all that much until he hurt too bad and settled on the bed, doing his best to sleep. It hadn’t gone at all well as he felt the beginning of an egg attempt it’s breach. 

It had been rough, to say the  _ very _ least. He hadn’t known he was pregnant, hadn’t known he was expecting eggs. And he hadn’t expected a second one, so much larger than the first to be his obvious dud, so much harder and flipped to have the larger end come out last. Donald had especially needed the coat hanger to bite on after that. He had sobbed so hard he almost threw up and his panic hadn’t at all subsided after he moved them to the closet and attempted to clean his wounds the best he could. However, his energy was running out and he felt cold and wanted nothing more than to just  _ sleep, _ though he did his best to tend to the two eggs. It only made his panic rise as he realized the first egg was cold and that his sister was frantically knocking at the door. He felt like a step away from giving up when he heard Uncle Scrooge at the door, too. 

“Breathe, mo mhac, breathe,” Scrooge says softly, still petting at Donald’s head, offering the bits of comfort he can what with Donald so clearly out of his comfort zone and the likes of physical contact being incredibly disliked for the moment. He can’t blame Donald, not with what’s happened, but he does still feel rather guilty and wants to help Donald the absolute most he can. 

“Something’s  _ wrong,” _ comes the sob, his voice cracking as he inhales sharply with another cry. He scrubs at his eyes, though Scrooge pulls his hands away as Donald snags at the scabs there. 

Della shakes her head and smiles, gently taking hold of her brother’s hand once more. “Hey, nothing’s wrong! They’re gonna get you cleaned up and then they’re gonna give you some pain killers and we can leave, take the egg home, and then do whatever! Adventures and stuff!” 

_ “No,” _ comes Donald’s sudden snap, shaking his head at his sister, “No more adventures! We could  _ die! _ I won’t be like mom and dad, I’m not gonna  _ leave them!” _

As the tears pour, Scrooge and Della both get a small bit of context to Donald’s worry. They get the tiniest of glimpses to realize just  _ why _ Donald is so incredibly on edge. He doesn’t want to leave them, not as their parents had. He didn’t want to be any sort of deadbeat like they had, either. And it makes more sense than either of the two want to realize as Scrooge slowly shakes his head, bringing his nephew into a gentle hug, limbs loose around the other and giving him more than just a bit of time to pull away or tell him off. Donald clings to him, though, desperate for the comfort. 

“Oh, Donald, I don’t think you’ll ever end up like your parents,” he says, his words taking hold of the other. “You’re going to be so much better of a parent than either of them ever will be, I promise you that.” 

Della nods her own agreement. “Yeah! You already care so much more than Mom and Dad ever did when anything happened to us!” Scrooge nods in agreement. 

Donald only shakes his head, devolving into quiet sobs but taking comfort in his uncle and sister’s attempts at comfort. He wants to just  _ sleep _ now, but he knows better than that. He still feels like he’s bleeding and judging by the fact that the doctor from earlier was constantly wiping at him with a red stain on the wipe, well, he didn’t doubt it the least bit, nor the fact that the had placed a towel beneath him that feels to be wet now. 

A few minutes later, the doctor from earlier comes in with a small team of others, mostly women and androgynous members of the team and a singular man who looks like he could beat anyone up with no issue there. They’re all in scrubs and the original doctor smiles softly. “Alright, sweetheart,” she says, her hands folding in front of herself, “We do need to clean you up, and then we need to get bits stitched up to help heal without too significant scarring. We can put you to sleep for it if you’d prefer. But, again, you can deny this, too, if you’d prefer we not perform the little surgery, as it is a surgery.” 

Scrooge’s bill purses as he turns towards the hesitant nephew, softly asking him, “What would you like to do, Donald? It’s up to you, mo ghaol bheag.” 

And Donald tightly holds at his uncle’s hand, the old nickname for the twins hitting close. Scrooge only used  _ my little love _ for the worst of their moments the same way their mom once had, albeit not as genuine as Scrooge’s had been. The children were secretly his pride and joys, so much more than the two could even process at this current moment, though they would eventually find that place in their hearts. He immediately leans into the other’s touch, softly voicing, “I want to try it,” with a nod, “while being asleep. I don’t… I don’t want to feel it.” 

Della nods along the same as Scrooge does. They both know just how dysphoric Donald can get to pain in his general vaginal area happened. More often than not, they would stay out of adventures as long as they could in hopes of helping Donald through his menstrual cycles when it came down to it. 

The doctor smiles as the man writes something down on a clipboard. “I’d also like to screen you for a pap smear and check for endometriosis. I was seeing a significant bit of scar tissue around there and I saw you check that you’ve been sexually assaulted before. While that could be blamed for it, too, I would like to check anyway in case there’s a way I can help ease your pain the best I can.” 

“Th - That’s okay,” he murmurs with a nod, sniffling. Della hands him a tissue to help wipe away his tears. 

The man once more writes something down, though he purses his bill and softly admits, “There were a few issues with the egg, though.” 

“They aren’t viable, are they,” Donald whimpers, his toes curling and eyes squeezing shut as he tries to brace for whatever he’ll be told. 

One of the more androgynous-looking birds steps up to speak. “The egg was actually viable, but it was a set of twins that seemed to merge. A long-standing life most likely would have been filled with pain and surgeries to keep them alive and somewhat healthy. Their heartbeat ended just a few moments ago and there’s very little we can do to help. I am incredibly sorry for your loss, Mister Duck.” 

Donald only nods softly, sniffling as his sobs die down to a submissive ache. THere’s a simmering bit of anger that both the other two McDucks know are aimed at the young McDuck himself. They’ll need to discuss it later but, for the moment, it’s clear Donald doesn’t want to talk about it, instead, asking to be prepped for the surgery as soon as he possibly can. 

-

Donald’s throat feels tight as he lays on the couch, his two boyfriends there and fretting over him with their own frowns. They both look worried, unaware of the situation outside of Donald having admitted he needed surgery a few days ago. Thanks to his amazing Duck luck, he’s healing slow and, for the moment, still bedridden with an occasional doctor coming to check up on him. The doctor had just left while the two were arriving, both more than a tiny bit nervous at seeing her and more than ready to absolutely lose their minds over their boyfriend. 

“Meu amor, what happened,” Jose asks in a quick squawk, brows furrowing. “Della said there were doctors and things about surgery!” 

Panchito is quick to nod in agreement, letting his own words of worry leaving him. 

“I laid eggs,” comes Donald’s blunt reply, eyes focusing on the wall, away from the two as tears once again collect in his eyes. He’s been crying so often now that it isn’t at all new to him. However, it is to his boyfriends, who still aren’t all that used to seeing their boyfriend break down and cry, despite being two of the very few people to see the worst of his breakdowns. It doesn’t help that he still looks like crap, despite having been keeping himself the cleanest and most unkempt he’s don’t in a long time in order to keep himself clean and trying to heal the quickest he can. It doesn’t help that the painkillers he’s been given mess with his emotions, often changing the chemicals in the user’s brain. Donald’s heard they could be addictive but he doesn’t understand why someone would even want to use them if they could make the person feel so bad. 

“Oh,  _ Donald,” _ Panchito whispers, his concern entirely too clear as he tentatively brings a hand up, gently cupping the duck’s cheek. Donald immediately leans into the comfort, sniffling and blinking slowly. “Are you alright, mi estrella?” 

Donald nods slowly, shoulders rising as he sobs softly. Panchito pulls him into a hug, so incredibly delicate and careful, soft words of comfort leaving him. He presses his beak to the duck’s forehead, kissing him softly. Jose himself moves to lean over the side of the couch and run his hands through the other’s feathers, stroking over his body in a delicate manner, so caring with each and every touch. There’s so much love in both of their actions that Donald has no idea how to cope with it, how to even handle how patient and loving they are.  _ Yes, _ he’s been with them for so many years now, but it doesn’t mean he isn’t still surprised by just how much they love him. After years of a lack of love in his childhood, well, he can’t say he’s used to being genuinely cared for and allowed any form of leniency. It’s always jarring as can be. 

“Why are you two being so  _ nice,” _ he chokes out. Donald’s thankful his sister and uncle aren’t in the room to see how pathetic he is, but he hates that his lovers are there, feeling like nothing more than a form of pitying form of love here. “I - I laid two eggs, two eggs that weren’t either of yours, neither of which survived, either.” He sniffles, gently pulling away from them. “You two should be  _ yelling _ at me for it, not - not  _ kissing  _ me and being nice! I don’t deserve for you two to be nice!” 

Panchito frowns slowly, the corners of his beak downturned slightly. He gently questions, “If I were to lay eggs and neither of them to make it, would you blame me?” 

Donald slowly shakes his head, trying to wipe away his tears. 

“And if they were nonconsensual especially, would you blame me for that, too?” 

“No,” he admits softly, but can’t find it in himself to agree with the other. “It’s  _ different,  _ though!” 

“How’s it any different, mi amor?” 

“I could have been  _ better,” _ he tries, his hands shaking. It’s the same thing he’s been repeating for years now. “I - If I did as my parents said, stayed their  _ perfect little daughter, _ wore the dresses they gave me, then maybe it wouldn’t have  _ even happened!” _ His body shakes with nerves, as if he’s waiting to be yelled at. The fact that he is, in fact, waiting for that makes the other two’s throats tighten horribly. “They said I deserved it, that it wouldn’t have happened if I had just been their  _ good little girl, _ so why aren’t you two  _ yelling at me too,” _ he cries out. 

Jose sighs softly, shaking his head as he crawls onto the couch carefully. “Donald, minha voz favorita, you were sexually assaulted before you came out, weren’t you?” 

Donald freezes but finds himself nodding reluctantly. 

“So, being a boy nor a girl had nothing to do with it, does it?” 

Panchito hums in agreement. “You are our moon, my love, and we won’t ever blame you for anything, not anything like that. It isn’t your fault and you don’t deserve to be yelled at over it. And, even if you would, we won’t yell at you.” 

_ “But I’m a whore,” _ he yells, his voice scratchy shambles. 

Jose smiles so softly, the stars to his own sun and moon. “Donald, you’re not a whore. And even if you were, we still love you, so,  _ so  _ very much.” 

Donald chokes down a cry, falling forward and clinging to his boyfriend. 

It’s going to take a lot of work, not just a couple of speeches and gentle kisses. They’ll need to be adamant that they love their boyfriend and they aren’t going to just step away from him, but they’re taking their very first baby steps towards doing what they can to help Donald heal. 

They do, albeit more than just a bit reluctantly, tell what Donald had said to his uncle Scrooge. It was an awkward conversation but they did get their points across rather easily. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have a big time jump after this chapter, most likely to what I'm going to do with my two favorite trios and what I'm going to do with the triplets. 
> 
> i do have another storyline, though, that I've got planned out and I'm going to do so I'm not sure what I'll do. I may drop it altogether.

**Author's Note:**

> I've actually got a storyline for this fic! Let's fuckin GO!!
> 
> Also, in honor of Ducktales (apparently) coming to an end, I'm going to post this fic before my end fixation.  
> Here's my discord server where you can hear me ramble on about how, for some reason, Donald and Scrooge both had absolute fucking dump truck asses for literally no reason and no one else does (I literally searched and checked, even Gladstone and Fethry are significantly slimmer, it ain't addin up)  
> https://discord.gg/eGkwayy
> 
> edit : 12/12/2020, I have changed the title. It was formerly "Renewal Is Gross Sometimes" but the title just didn't feel correct. I hope this feels better, though I'm not entirely sure.


End file.
